The Fist of God

Despite her passion, Edith Hardenberg had never been to an opera in the Staatsoper. She had, of course, roamed the building when it was open in the daytime, but an orchestra ticket had always been beyond her.

They were almost beyond price. Season tickets for the opera were handed down from generation to generation. A season’s abonnement was for the seriously rich. Other tickets could be obtained only by influence, of which she had none. Even ordinary tickets were beyond her means. She sighed and returned to her work.

That one day of warm weather had been the end. The cold and the gray clouds came back. She returned to her habit of lunching at her usual café and at her usual table. She was a very neat lady, a creature of habit.

On the third day after the park she arrived at her table at the usual hour, to the minute, and half-noticed that the one next to her was occupied. There was a pair of student books—she did not bother with the titles—and a half-drunk glass of water.

Hardly had she ordered the meal of the day when the occupant of the table returned from the men’s room. It was not until he sat down that he recognized her and gave a start of surprise.

“Oh, Grü ss Gott —again,” he said. Her lips tightened into a disapproving line. The waitress arrived and put down her meal. She was trapped. But the young man was irrepressible.

“I finished the program notes. I think I understand it all now.”

She nodded and began delicately to eat. “Excellent. You are studying here?”

Now why had she asked that? What madness had gotten into her? But the chatter of the restaurant rose all around her. What are you worrying about, Edith? Surely a civilized conversation, even with a foreign student, could do no harm? She wondered what Herr Gemütlich would think. He would disapprove, of course.

The dark young man grinned happily.

“Yes. I study engineering. At the Technical University. When I have my degree, I will go back home and help to develop my country. Please, my name is Karim.”

“Fräulein Hardenberg,” she said primly. “And where do you come from, Herr Karim?”

“I am from Jordan.”

Oh, good gracious, an Arab. Well, she supposed there were a lot of them at the Technical University, two blocks across the Kärntner Ring. Most of the ones she saw were street vendors, awful people selling carpets and newspapers at the pavement cafes and refusing to go away. The young man next to her looked respectable enough. Perhaps he came from a better family. But after all ... an Arab. She finished her meal and signaled for the bill. Time to leave this young man’s company, even though he was remarkably polite. For an Arab.

“Still,” he said regretfully, “I don’t think I’ll be able to go.”

Her bill came. She fumbled for some schilling notes.

“Go where?”

“To the opera. To see The Magic Flute . Not alone—I wouldn’t have the nerve. So many people. Not knowing where to go, where to applaud.”

She smiled tolerantly.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll go, young man, because you won’t get any tickets.”

He looked puzzled.

“Oh no, it’s not that.”

He reached into his pocket and placed two pieces of paper on the table. Her table. Beside her bill.

Second row of the orchestra. Within feet of the singers. Center aisle.

“I have a friend in the United Nations. They get an allocation, you know. But he didn’t want them, so he gave them to me.”

Gave. Not sold, gave. Beyond price, and he gave them away.

“Would you,” asked the young man pleadingly, “take me with you? Please?”

It was beautifully phrased, as if she would be taking him.

She thought of sitting in that great, vaulted, gilded, rococo paradise, her spirit rising with the voices of the basses, baritones, tenors, and sopranos high into the painted ceiling above. ...

“Certainly not,” she said.